Send me some token, that my hope may live	
  Or that my easelesse thoughts may sleep and rest;	
Send me some honey, to make sweet my hive,	
  That in my passions I may hope the best.	
I beg noe ribbond wrought with thine owne hands,	       
  To knit our loves in the fantastick straine	
Of new-toucht youth; nor Ring to shew the stands	
  Of our affection, that as that’s round and plaine,	
So should our loves meet in simplicity;	
  No, nor the Coralls, which thy wrist infold,	         
Lac’d up together in congruity,	
  To shew our thoughts should rest in the same hold;	
No, nor thy picture, though most gracious,	
  And most desir’d, because best like the best;  	
Nor witty Lines, which are most copious,	         
  Within the writings which thou hast addresst.
	
Send me nor this, nor that, t’increase my store,	
But swear thou thinkst I love thee, and no more.